Posts Tagged With: missiles

Oh my gosh. It’s Friday already. Did you know there’s one every week? So, I shall once more be dispensing bad advice As usual, the advice will stupendously bad.
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JW asks: Should I really call my mom, or get her a gift or card, or visit her, or any of those other mother’s day things?

Dear JW: I think you should give the Mothers’ Day of Benedict Cummerbund. He’s handsome as anything, he’s rich, he has a career, what more could mother want? Ask Benadryl Cuminpatch if he’d like to spend the rest of his life with Mom. You’ll have to ask Benpicked Cucumber nicely as he is, as indeed all celebrities, used to people gushing up to him. If a lifetime commitment is too much, would he be willing to do whatever Mom wanted for one day. Should he complain of lost income from his movies, you’ll just have to rob banks until you’ve accumulated $100 million. Oh, and a grilled cheese sandwich. Make sure the cheese is gruyère. Celebrities have expenses tastes. This will be a Mothers’ Day Mom will never forget.

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SL Red, purple, or green?

Dear SL: The White House has been that uninspired white ever since its construction. I applaud your desire to spiff up the world’s most recognized building, to give it some character, to have some fun. Since, the color of the Republican party is often thought to be red, it would good to paint the White House red. I strongly suggest using spray paint for the job as the Secret Service is not going to give you much time to do a professional job with a roller and a paint brush. Indeed, they apt to be rather cross with you while hauling you away to ask such questions such as, “How did you get over the fence and so close to the White House without being spotted?” You’ll be able to answer with, “Why I went to the nearest circus and bought a cannon from the Human Cannonball. I then shot myself and my paint.” Maybe that will impress them. It’s worth a shot. (See what I did there?)

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JCA asks: Mayo, or Miracle Whip? Not for food, but for bedroom fun. (Asking for a friend).

Dear JCA: My natural inclination as a chef is to suggest mayonnaise as it is a purer food and less likely to be a chemical sh*tstorm. Indeed, try to get mayonnaise with all natural ingredients. Let’s keep our planet green. However in this case, spreadability and lubrication will be prized more than it would be in making a tuna sandwich, I suggest the scientific method. Have two bedroom romps with each volunter. Ask them if they preferred the mayonnaise experience or the one with Miracle WhipTM. You might need hundreds of volunteer partners before you become quite confident in your results. Should you have a spouse who balks at your scientific zeal, you might need to present your sweetheart with a nice box of chocolates and some lovely flowers when asking their permission. Oh, and make sure you always use fresh mayonnaise and Cool Whip. You don’t want to get false responses from your volunteers because you used something rancid. Check those expiration dates.

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KGV states: Thanks for the reminder. Being retired, I easily forget which day of the week we are celebrating.

Dear KGV: It is easy to forget the day of the week, isn’t it? Buy yourself a $600 cell phone, one that shows the day of the week. You don’t have to use the phone for anything. If opening the cell phone just to find the day of the week seems a bit weird, hire a butler. The butler will follow you around and will be pleased to tell what day it is no how many times you ask.

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LF asks: Why do ticks tick?

Dear LF: Not all ticks tick, only the explosive ones. Explosiveness was a defensive trait evolved by ticks during the Cretaceous period. Ticks of that time were forever getting trampled underfoot by tyrannosaurus rexes hot on the pursuit of a brontosaurus burger. A tick scout would raise the alarm whenever a T-rex approached. The explosive ticks would rush the killer dinosaur and explode themselves. The explosion would kill the tyrannosaurus, but the rest of the tick colony would be saved. Sure it would take a lot of ticks to fell a mighty Rex, but holy moly, there are a boatload of ticks. There’s a practical use to this as well. North Korea has not acting at all neighborly lately. To help the world, get on the plane to North Korea with a carry-on bag full of explosive ticks. Don’t worry about TSA, the ticks aren’t metallic and aren’t even on any list of prohibited items. The North Koreans, being a wary sort, might ask you what’s in your bag. They might even open your bag and ask, “What are those ticks doing?” You should say, “I don’t know. Do ticks talk?” (See what I did there?) Then head to the nearest military installation, the one where you can do the most damage. Tell the ticks that those North Korean missiles or fighter planes are T-Rexes. The ticks will blow up the entire installation or base. Oh I forgot, the North Korea security is a distrustful lot. Try to blend in as you make your way through the countryside.

I gave a lot of substitutes for this recipe as some of the ingredients are hard to find outside of an Asian grocery.

* = DO NOT get SALTED pork belly. It will make everything taste way too salty. Also, the pork belly should be sliced as thinly as bacon. If you cannot obtain thinly sliced, unsalted pork belly, you are better off using sliced bacon.

SPECIAL UTENSIL

grill, outdoor is preferable
grilling basket

Serves 6 people. Takes 1 hours 40 minutes.

PREPARATION

Mince shallots. Add shallot, pepper, fish sauce, and sugar to first large mixing bowl. Stir with whisk until well blended. Pour half of this marinade into a second large mixing bowl. Put pork belly in first bowl. Thoroughly coat the pork-belly slices with this marinade. Add the ground pork into the second bowl. Use hands to thoroughly knead the marinade into the ground pork. Put mixing bowls in refrigerator for 1 hour.

While pork marinates, dice cilantro, green onions, lettuce, perilla, Thai basil, and Vietnamese mint. Cut the bulb of the kohlrabi into ¼” slices. Put herbs in a large bowl. Mix with fork until well blended.

Form marinated ground pork into patties 2″ across and ½” thick. Spray grilling basket with no-stick spray. Put patties in grilling basket and grill for 4 minutes on each side or until both sides become golden brown. Remove grilled patties. Spray grilling basket again. Put pork-belly strips in grilling basket and grill for 2 minutes on each side until strips turn golden brown.

1) Bun Cha is short for Man Bun Cha Cha Cha, a Cuban dance from the 1950s. It’s associated with the island’s music scene and freedom of expression. Okay, there has been precious little freedom of expression in Cuba since Fidel Castro and his band of fitfully merry communists took over in 1959.

2) There was a reason for Castro’s oppression. The previous government under the dictator Bautista was decadent beyond belief. Government official thought nothing of double dipping tortillas chips into the communal sofrito bowl. Leaders and army officers grew their hair long, tied it up in man buns, and danced the Man Bun Cha Cha Cha. It was a parlous time.

3) Castro and his merry outcasts tried to humiliate Bautista’s regime by defeating its officials in Cha Cha contests. They didn’t. They couldn’t dance worth a lick. That is why they were outcasts. Frustrated, Fido–no it’s Fidel, Fido’s a dog’s name–turned to the United States for support. America ignored him; the White Sox were about to be in the World Series for the first time since. 1919.

4) So, Fidel seized power with support from the Soviet Union and outlawed the man bun. In return, the Soviets got permission to place nuclear missiles in Cuba. President Kennedy objected. We almost had a nuclear war, always a bad thing. So, the man bun is outlawed the world over and the dance is now known only as the Cha Cha. Call it the Man Bun Cha Cha Cha and you’ll get arrested. Wear a man bun as well and you’ll disappear. For good. And don’t name your dog, Fidel.

– Chef Paul

My cookbook, Eat Me: 169 Fun Recipes From All Over the World, and my newest novel, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms, are available in paperback or Kindle on amazon.com

“Rudolph, instead of sending coal to the naughty people for Christmas, I’ll be launching ICBMs. They’ll be heading south in ten minutes.” I slapped my knee. “Haw! Everything is south from here.”
Rudolph’s red nose glowed bright. “Sir, we have nuclear missiles? Nuclear missiles? How did we acquire nuclear missiles?”
“My furry friend, what do you think my elves build in their workshop every January and February? They do a good job. Every one of my missiles can strike anywhere in the world.” My hands traced a blossoming mushroom cloud.
Rudolph shook his antlers. “No sir, don’t do it. I take great pride in guiding your sleigh every year. You know how you love giving gifts to all the nice kids. Maybe you are just having bi-polar issues.”
“No,” I said, “I’ve been taking my meds.”
“Santa, Sir, things are not so bad,” said Rudolph, “you shouldn’t be so cranky.”
“So cranky. So cranky,” I said. “I have great reason to be cranky. The Elves are on strike, demanding I stop outsourcing jobs to India. I might have to move to the South Pole because of global warming. Mrs. Claus has gone to Peru to get in touch with her inner self and Prancer has just come out of the closet.”
Rudolph nuzzled me. “Still, that’s no reason to nuke the world.”
I sighed. “No, my friend, that’s not the real reason. I used to put “caught being good” marks by most people’s names whenever I spied on them. Now people for whatever reason–-drinking skim milk maybe–-design perpetually jamming printers and fire surface-to-air missiles at anything that flies by. Why, last Christmas, I couldn’t even fly my sleigh through the night skies without a little F-16 escort from my friends at NORAD.”
“Oh,” said Rudolph, “I think you’re exaggerating. I’ll bet there a lot more nice people than naughty.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. I turned on my Little JohnnyTM computer and brought up my Santa’s Naughty or NiceTM software. I pointed toward the monitor. “Look, look. Over four billion people are naughty and fewer than two billion are nice.”
Rudolph did peruse the screen. Indeed, many more naughty acts were being caught than good ones by my extensive global network of satellites.
As Rudolph said nothing, I continued. “If people want any more presents from me, heck, if they want merely not to be nuked, I’m going to need to find at least as many nice folks as naughty by Christmas Eve. But I doubt if I can. That’s why I’ve set the launch times.”
“Won’t you miss the milk and cookies that the good little boys and girls will give?” asked Rudolph. “Can you really break their little hearts? Substituting nuclear winter for seasonal snow?”
I sighed. “If only two billion more people were nicer. You know, gave to charities, opened doors for little old ladies, read a story to a toddler, or brushed their teeth, I’d cancel the launches.”
Rudolph thought for a minute. “It’s a bit much to expect that many people to change so quickly. How about a test case? How about if just one chosen person changes the world for the better by Christmas Eve, would you stop the launching of the nuclear missiles?”
“For the sake of that one person, I would,” I said.
“Whom will you choose?”
“Sam Mollusk,” I said. “He’s kin.”
Rudolph raised the deer equivalent of an eyebrow. “Sir, does Sam have to be good to make the whole world better? Couldn’t he just buy more Li’l PathfinderTM cookies? Or maybe eliminate a bit of evil here and there?”
I slapped my knee. “Rudolph, you’re a genius. Killing naughty people would make the world a nicer place. Yes my friend, if Sam Mollusk kills enough naughty people I promise you there will be a happy, missile-free Christmas after all.”
Rudolph coughed. “I wasn’t proposing such a solution.”
“Ho! Ho! Ho! You’re being too modest, my red-nosed friend. If only people would help out their friends and neighbors with a little beneficial murder here and there.”
Rudolph shook his furry head. “Sir, how do you know Sam Mollusk will commit these beneficial murders?”
I beamed with pride. “He’s a good kid.”
“But sir, lots of good kids never commit murders of any sort. How are you going to get him started?”
“Rudolph, he comes from the same bloodline as I do. The Claus line has always wanted to bring joy to the world, sometimes by giving, like me up to now, and sometimes by killing, like my kin Wyatt Earp.
“Besides, my furry friend, Sam Mollusk drives a tiny Prius. Trust me, he’s ready to kill.”
I, Santa, pushed the button to watch coverage from my satellites orbiting over Poway, California. I said to my monitor, “Ah, Mr. Mollusk, I will be following your every move. You have thirty days to commit thirty beneficial murders. Will you do it?”
Rudolph smiled at me. “If I get a nice cup of OvaltineTM will you make it twenty-nine days to accomplish twenty-nine beneficial murders? That will give him to Christmas Eve.”
I, Santa, laughed. “All right my friend, I’m such a softie. Twenty nine in twenty nine it is.”

“The three blind judges of Abiraz have chosen Sarani Said of Egypt to be this year’s Miss Burka. In the likely event of her martyrdom, Halmai’i Barrani of Libya will take over.
“Fiendish sources in Afghanistan tell of budgetary concerns in Al Qaeda cells worldwide. Says Hoshni Al Fiendi, CEO of Al Qaeda, ‘We are running out of funds. What with the worldwide downturn and lingering image problems, it’s been a bad year for donations. Even our TV marathons and falafel bakes aren’t raising much. Our cash flow problems are so bad that we face a hostile takeover by TupperwareTM on December 24.’
“We righteous warriors cannot let this happen. Unless we raise enough Dinars by that time we shall unleash the Great Unleashing where every terrorist will be sent on a suicide bombing mission to a single, spectacular target.
“We have been resisting the Great Unleashing because frankly, it is suicidal. Or the Great Satan might wipe out all humanity with retaliatory nuclear strikes. And if we all die, what will happen to Al Qaeda? Gone the way of five-cent falafel. So, give all you can, right away.
“And now a word from our sponsor, Abd al-Tijana, CFO of Al Qaeda.”
“Unemployed? Tired of a dead-end job? Well, come on over to Al Qaeda Central. Our recent spate of suicide bombings means openings at the ground level. Must have references.
“Do you hunger for small-scale explosions at suburban food courts? Or is nuclear war with the Great Satan more your style? Well, make your way to Poway Al Qaeda, a place where bloodshed is always on the menu.”
“Take care. Al youm herr barrah. (It’s hot outside.)”